Sunday, December 7, 2014

·Are you uncomfortable with how comfortable you
are around your peers?

·Do your get-togethers and holiday parties look
like a Norman Rockwell painting, or a L.L. Bean catalog, or a Norman Rockwell
painting of a L.L. Bean catalog?

·Are the only minorities in your “inner circle”
clearing your dishes, doing your laundry, and / or teaching your curly-haired
daughter how to tap dance down an inexplicably long staircase?

·Has your sense of humor resulted in you being
called in front of HR on more than one occasion?

·Trying to impress that coed who is long on “inclusion”
and short on appropriately-lengthed skirts?

·Fear being called “racist” even though you won’t
even say words that contain the letter “n”?

·Ever been accused of a hate crime?

If you answered “Yes” to any (or all) of these questions,
then I have just the thing. The McCloud
Corporation’s Racial Harmonics Division, a wholly-owned subsidiary of the
company that brought you such services as Rent-A-Kid and Shame Insurance (“Shame
Insurance: We can’t guarantee you’ll go to Heaven, but we can guarantee people will
think you did.”), now brings you “Some of My Closest Friends” or SOMCFs (pronounced suhm kuhfs).

What is SOMCFs?

SOMCFs provides a splash of needed color to your get-togethers,
weddings, birthday parties, family gatherings, and photo albums, to make you
appear more…“inclusive” to the world at large.

The key to SOMCFs is personalization, because we realize
that, like snowflakes, no two white people are alike. Our Diversity Experts walk each prospective
client through our proprietary Race Card Susceptibility Assessment to gauge
just how bad things are, or can be made to appear. Once the Assessment has been completed, we
work with the client to discuss the level of service.

How much does it cost?

SOMCFs offers a variety of packages for all situations and
budgets ranging from “Trailer Park” to “Gated Community”. The question is not can you afford to use
SOMCFs; the question is can you afford not to.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

The day began like any other, which is to say without a dope
beat ta step to. “It’s been a long time
since she left me,” I thought to myself.
“It’s been a long time…”

I started the day with my “morning cleanse” by “making light
my intestinal burden”. There was not yet
a need to shower as the first thing on my “To-Do” list was to take a mattress
and box spring to the landfill. (That
and the fact that my body naturally produces a scent reminiscent of babies’
breath and unicorn tears.) One of the
few benefits of having to take my car to the body shop was the fact that I got
a rental car. (Of course, paying a $250
deductible to get a rental car isn’t much of a benefit, but when Life gives you
lemons…) After the mattress was loaded into
the back of the Hyundai Santa Fe (“Hyundai, we’re better now.”) it became
readily apparent to anyone paying attention --or anyone who excelled at the
spatial relations portion of any of a number of standardized tests-- that the
box spring was not going to fit. Given
that each load taken to the landfill cost $7, and I wasn’t made of money, I had
no intention of taking two trips.
“Pardon my French, but ‘F*ck That’!”
[Editor’s Note: Damion doesn’t
speak French.]

Just when I thought all, well $7, was lost, I opened my
“mental Man Bible”, turned to “The Book Of Watkinson” Chapter 12 verse 15 in
which it was said, “There’s no such thing as obstacles; only
saw-portunities.” So, I oiled my chainsaw
(and my chiseled torso) and got ready to “turn this mutha out”. Before cutting into the box spring, I took my
bypass lopper and snipped the metal frame; decreasing the potential for
kickback. I then donned my gloves and
protective eyewear, stood above the box spring, and got down to business. As the heat of the day began to rise, I
flipped the box spring over and over again, cutting it into ever smaller
pieces. Sawdust filled the air…and stuck
to the mixture of oil and sweat on my chest. (Honestly, I really didn’t think
this through.)

“Could it BE any hotter?!?” I asked aloud.

“I could tell you, but why ruin the surprise?” a voice
responded from on-high.

“This is not the last I’m gonna hear from you today, is it?”

“Nope.”

Once I returned from delivering the mattress and freshly
hewn pieces of box spring, I got my cleaning supplies ready to wash “Shakira”
and “Steph”. (You can’t wash one without
the other.) Why do I insist on
hand-washing my cars? Because, as the
old saying goes, “You never truly know a lady until you’ve washed her by
hand.” [Ed’s Note: No one has ever said that.
Correction: No one not currently in prison or not soon to be the subject
of an episode of “48 Hours Mystery” has ever said that.]

After my ladies were presentable, I readied myself for the
third part of my day; the 2nd Round of the NCAA Tournament where the
Blue Devils of Duke would face-off against the something-somethings of
Mercer. Being in public meant, of
course, freshening up. After scrubbing
myself with Dove Men + Care (“Dove for Men: It only LOOKS like a giant Viagra”);
I puts on my Duke-rooting uniform. I
then combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and slapped on some Aqua Velva, which,
in French, roughly translates to “water vagina”. [Ed’s
Note: First off, that’s not French.
Secondly, I’m pretty sure he was thinking “Aqua Vulva”.]

Believing the win to be a foregone conclusion and
envisioning myself basking in the glorious envy of other collegiate basketball
fans, I also prepped for the fourth part of my day: Cirque du Soleil presents
Michael Jackson’s Immortal. This
involved packing clothes more in line with the cultural milieu. As it would turn out, the preparations were
not necessary; but I digress. [Ed’s Note: This would not be the first nor
the last time his “celebration” would prove premature.]

Once ready, I fired up “Steph” and headed to the local
watering hole. “Welcome to Hooters!”
they shouted as I made my entrance. As
the first half drew to a close, it was all too evident that both I and my Blue
Devils had underestimated Mercer. Unable
to hit a mid-range jumper or simple layup, the only thing keeping Duke in the
game was three-point shooting; something on which they would become overly-reliant. The unexpected competitiveness made another
truth self-evident. Namely, nothing
brings fans of other teams together quite like their hatred for Duke. As Mercer’s confidence grew, so did the roar
of the anti-Duke crowd.

As they cheered each Mercer make and Duke mishap, I remained
silent. As chants of “Let’s go Mercer”
emanated like a groundswell of…swelling ground, I remained silent. As my waitress asked if I needed anything, I
remained silent. [Ed’s Note: Mainly, because he was hypnotized by her cleavage in his
face, but…hey.] But when the kid at the table next to me shouted, “Duke
sucks!” I could remain silent no longer.
At that moment, Duke went on a mini-run.
As anyone in my position would do, I turned to the child who made the
offending remark and yelled, “Suck it!”

“Did you just tell a six-year old to ‘Suck it’?” my server
asked

“First of all,” I explained, “he’s at least seven. Secondly, he started it.”

“Seems a bit childish,” she replied.

“Yes, he does.”

“Actually, I was referring to—You know, my eyes are up here.”

“I’m aware…”

Mercer took advantage of my lapse in concentration by
halting Duke’s run and closing out a 7-point victory.

“Are you ready for the check?”

I nodded in the affirmative.
I was numb, but comfortably so.
The Yin of crippling despair firmly nestled against the Yang of ample boob-age. Normally, the sight of another team dancing
on the shards of the Blue Devils shattered expectations would have left me
devastated. In the face of it (them), however,
I was able to keep my head up. (Well, not
“up” so much as slightly angled.) As it
turns out, Hooters really DOES make one happy.

The lack of a drawn-out celebration left a hole in my
schedule. So, after paying the check and
leaving a healthy tip; something I often do out of respect for wait staff [Ed: read “waitresses”] and bartenders [female bartenders]; I headed home to
regroup.

Upon arriving at home, I took my change of clothes out of
the back, headed upstairs, and took a very long, very hot shower; the falling
water masking my tears. While I stood
slumped over with only the shower wall keeping me from crumpling to the floor, the
water flowed over my lowered head and into the drain. I seriously considered skipping the
performance altogether. I eventually
pulled myself together. “Pull yourself
together, Man!” I told myself. “This is
Cirque du Soleil! This is Michael Jackson! This is ’The King of Pop’! This is a non-refundable ticket! Why is this water still running??? I’m not
made of money!” I shut off the water,
toweled off, got dressed, and prepared to meet my public.

The performance was at The Patriot Center on the campus of
George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia.
Knowing traffic on I95’s tendency to become a giant parking lot,
especially on Fridays, I headed up early. I would stop at a nearby dining
establishment, which I was always “Welcome to”’d, for dinner and basketball. Near the outset of my journey, my day took an
unexpected turn for the better.

I was at a stoplight.
A gray BMW 5-series pulled up next to me. The driver was one of those overeager people
who tries to jump the light. When the
light turned green, he gunned his engine and set off. “Steph” let out a low, barely audible
growl. She wanted to hunt. I usually don’t participate in such juvenile
activities. I am, after all, a Southern
gentleman. However, I was having a bad
day, my Blue Devils had been unceremoniously eliminated from the Tournament,
and I really, REALLY hate BMWs. So, I gripped
the steering wheel and let Steph off of her leash. She let out a roar, dug her rear paws into
the asphalt, and locked in on her prey.
Propelled forward by her powerful rear legs, it was only a matter of
seconds before she had caught up to and overtaken the BMW. “Steph” had eaten her first German, and she
had done so without engaging Sport mode.
All before reaching the speed limit.
It was a good kill.

When I arrived at Hooters Fairfax, it became readily
apparent that I had underestimated the overlap between patrons of the
performing arts and consumers of chicken wings.
Why else would the parking lot be so full? I couldn’t think of a reason. After driving in circles, I finally found a
spot right in front of the eatery. As I
emerged from my car, I was accosted by a policeman. He being an officer, and I a gentleman, I
felt certain we would be able to quickly resolve any misunderstandings.

“You can’t park there, Sir.
That’s handicap parking”

“It’s okay; it’s a Jag.”

“Pretty sure that doesn’t matter.”

“Sorry, I meant to say, ‘It’s a Jaguar.’”

“Oh, in that case…No.
Unless you have a handicap, you can’t park there.”

“Does color-blindness count?”

“Nope.”

“I’m not great at math.”

“Sorry.”

“I lack of sense of decency.”

“Obviously. Try again.”

“I have no Soul.”

“That’s unfortunate, but still doesn’t qualify.”

“I meant I can’t dance.”

“Even so.”

“I can’t sing, either.”

“And?”

“’And?’. I’m black, and
I can neither sing nor dance…”

“While I admit that particular revelation calls into
question many of the stereotypes I have come to accept, that still doesn’t rise
to the level of handicap.”

“Fine.”

“Good talk.”

“No ticket?”

“You’ve got enough problems.”

“Thanks?”

While we were talking a space opened up. After moving, I went inside where I was
immediately welcomed…Welcomed to Hooters.

“Are you here to watch the games?”

“My team lost earlier today.”

“Who’s your team?”

“Duke.”

(long silence)

“Lemme guess. You
hate Duke.”

(Wry smile accompanied
by continued silence.) “What can I get you to drink?”

“Sweet tea.”

She came back with the sweet tea, and we continued our
conversation.

“So, is Kentucky still in the Tournament?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Good. I’m originally
from Kentucky.”

Being a Duke fan, I hate Kentucky. Not to the level I hate the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill (Tar...heels...), but hate nonetheless. She was extremely attractive, however, so I
responded as follows, “Really? I’ve always had a healthy respect for the
long-standing tradition of the Kentucky Basketball program (other than the
period of blatant racism), and have found everyone I’ve met from Kentucky to be
incredibly--.”

Jesus: “Sorry. Don’t
mean to interrupt, but can you read this for me?” (Hands me a note.)

Me: “Shame?”

Jesus: “Great. Just
checking. Carry on...”

“So, you’re going to pull for Kentucky now, right?”

“I don’t see white top.”

“What?”

“I don’t see why not…why not.”

After placing my order, my waitress (Hooters Girl) sat down
across from me.

“So, when Duke lost, did you cry?”

“I cried a little…in my face.”

“Where else would you cry?”

“Sometimes, I cry in my pants.”

“I don’t think those are tears.”

“Really? Because I often feel sad afterwards.”

“I don’t think that’s sadness you’re feeling.”

“Then what?”

Jesus (leaning over
and pointing to my hand): “Read the note.” (Nods.)

When I noticed it was getting close to opening curtain, I
paid my check (with tip) and headed on my way.
I arrived at the Patriot Center having made great time. I parked “Steph” and walked into the
arena.

Upon seeing my ticket, the usher
pointed towards my seat and asked if I would like to utilize one of the
available oxygen tanks.

During my trek, my thoughts turned to my impending
neighbors. The only thing that concerned
me about going to performances alone was not knowing who would be sitting next
to me. Who would it be this time? Who would The Fates, in all their dark
comedy, see fit to trap me next to? A
woman and her crying baby? An inquisitive
child asking, “What are they doing?” every five minutes? Sir Shares-A-Lot? Madame Asks-Too-Much? The Space Invader? Mister “Did You See That”? Miss “I first saw Michael…”?

My body tensed with each step as I steeled my nerves and awaited
the unveiling. As I approached my seat,
I saw a woman. She was gorgeous and, as
was I, dressed to impress. She was
exquisite. Could this raven-haired
beauty really be the one accompanying me on this walk down memory lane, or was
it merely a mirage brought on by the thinning air? Upon my arrival, we greeted each other with
the requisite pleasantries. Though I
didn’t know much about her, I knew that she appreciated performance art,
fashion, and Michael Jackson. By her
seat location, I also knew that she either liked to do things last-minute or appreciated
a good bargain. “This is going to be
fun,” I thought to myself. “For, as
anyone who really knows me is fully aware, I likes my ladies like I likes my doors,
which is to say—“

The show was amazing!
The woman, unfortunately, was married.
I don’t know which was more surprising: the fact that she kept talking
after telling me she was married or the fact that I kept listening. No matter.

After peeing in a trough with 15 other dudes while 40 others
waited behind, I headed back to the car for the trip home. As I sat at the last light before my exit, a black,
turbocharged Volkswagen Beetle pulled up next to me. (Volkswagen: Because not all Germans are a*holes.) The driver rolled down the window, pointed to
me, then pointed forward. He wanted to
race. I was tired, it had been a long
day, and I just wanted to get home. “Steph”,
however, had gotten a taste for blood.

“What the hell,” I thought. “Girl’s gotta eat, and she do love German…”

About Me

People often look and the day-to-day mundanity that makes up their own lives and wish that their lives could be as exciting as those of their favorite celebrities, television personalities, movie stars, and cartoon characters. It has long been my belief that, with a few exceptions, those people’s lives are no more exciting than the people who idolize them. They just have better writers. The collection of stories within this blog is my attempt to close the gap.
So, why “Paving The Road to Hell”? It has often been said that “the road to Hell [like many roads in the Commonwealth of Virginia] is paved with good intentions”. (It’s actually paved with what is now referred to as “Nutella”, but that doesn’t play as well.) I often have good intentions. The actual outcomes, however, seem mostly to move me closer to eternal damnation. And “Dear Diary:”? I just thought the idea of a 6’4”, 240-lb black --yes, it’s okay to call me “black”. I find the term “African-American” annoying as not all black people are American.-- man that rarely smiles writing in a diary would be funny.
Enjoy.